Hellsing: In The Company Of Death
by No Satisfaction
Summary: The influx of fake vampires has Hellsing's ranks expanding - much to Sir Integra's chagrin - with American sailors and Alucard's new fledgling. But with all the new blood, does Hellsing's soldiers have what it takes to fight the evil threatening England with total destruction?
1. Order 0 - Prologue

Prologue: ORDER 0

_"Silhouettes and shadows  
__Watch the revolution  
No more free steps to heaven  
It's no game"_

David Bowie, It's No Game (Part 1)

* * *

USS Samar, CG-74

Indian Ocean - Approximately 300 Nautical Miles east of Kismayo, Somalia.

There were several things that had set off alarm bells in everyone's mind about the merchant vessel, but for the Skipper of USS Samar, the biggest red flag was simply his gut instinct. Never mind the vessel's apparent reluctance to answer to the hails over the radio, or the fact that the vessel had previously been reported by USS Grant just prior to that naval vessel's fatal accident that claimed a boarding party. No; the anxious tugging in the back of the Skipper's mind that said there was absolutely nothing right with this picture had been the deciding factor to muster the VBSS team.

Visit, Board, Search and Seizure; Navy SWAT as some sailors occasionally referred them. While often conducted with delivery via RHIB, the sense of urgency that gnawed at his mind had been enough to send the team by fast rope from one of the cruiser's two SH-60 Seahawks. Once the team was on the deck, the helicopter was ordered to stand by for possible air support until the operation had run its course.

But as the Skipper watched the first of his sailors repel down the rope, the sense of dread hanging over him like a storm cloud finally drenched him.

* * *

With the final man on the deck, they were ready to move. The team leader, a lieutenant-junior grade, motioned for the team to press forward towards the aft deckhouse where the ship's bridge and crew quarters were. The men wove their way amongst the shipping containers, covering the corners, ensuring deterrence against anyone who may be bold enough, or dumb enough to try and catch them off guard.

"Sir," Chief called, "something don't seem right here to you?"

"Thank god it's not just me! I'm getting the heebie-jeebies from this rust bucket."

The 'jay-gee' let out an audible breath, taking a moment to look at the shipping crates around him before finally turning to look at Chief.

"Something tells me we're not gonna find soap and baby food in these –"

A loud, deafening blast erupted. Chief immediately turned towards his superior, alarmed by the noise and the officer's sudden lack of presence. There before lay on the deck the 'jay-gee', sans head, and with a shotgun totting figure of the 'crewman' that had evidently stowed inside one of the crates. The door slightly open behind him.

Chief didn't give a moment's hesitance. The son-of-bitch was a bullet sponge.

And all hell seemed to break loose.

* * *

Word had reached to bridge- the boarding team was taking fire, already one man dead, with their helo taking a few bullets above.

"Weapons free."

The Skipper sent the call out; muster the SCAT teams, and bring the ship as close as they could, have the forward 5-inch turret trained for a possible shot into the bridge, where there appeared to be a majority of the armed 'crew'.

"Sir, incoming transmission, sir."

"Tell 'em to leave a message, we have a goddamned crisis on our hands."

"But sir, its directly from the Pentagon, sir."

The Skipper paused his actions momentarily, seeming to attempt to grasp what exactly was happening. "Patch 'em through" he grunted, picking up the handset next to his chair.

"Call off the boarding party captain." The suit on the other end didn't even give the Skipper a chance to introduce himself.

"I would if I could." The Skipper could hear the suit on the other end curse followed by "…again."

"Excuse me sir?"

"It's too late, there's nothing that can be done now. Your orders are to leave that ship alone."

"Kinda hard to do when it's turned into Mogadishu sir. I can't just pull my boarding team out of there. We've already got a casualty."

"There's nothing that can be done now captain. You're just going to have to leave them."

The Skipper says nothing for a good 12 seconds.

"Are you going to comply?" the suit said harshly. Skipper could tell that he is getting agitated.

"Aye aye. Disengaging." Skipper finally responds.

"Good" the Suit said contently. The Skipper abruptly cuts the feed, denying the suit the respect that he clearly did not deserve.

"Are you really going through with this sir?" The XO asks.

"Fuck no!" Skipper replies with a grin. "Prepare to fire."

* * *

The team of four then begins to unload on the armed crew around their immediate vicinity. As they are moving through the crates they begin to receive a lot of fire from the bridge pinning them behind a crate.

"Requesting fire sup…" The Chief is interrupted by a shot from the Bunker Hill's 5-inch followed shortly by an explosion from the bridge.

"Get behind something solid." is heard over the team's radios. They duck into one of the open crates and hide behind a BMP. Shortly after the sounds of the Bunker Hill's twin .50s and 25mms open up.

After what seems like the longest 2 minutes of their lives, "Deck is clear, continue to lower decks." is heard over the radio. "Alright let's move!" Chief orders. The team then proceeds to the lower decks.

After a half hour engagement the ship is finally secured.

* * *

Bunker Hill's bridge was as eerily silent as the blood soaked freighter had become, the crew dead quiet in wait for the radio transmission from the boarding party.

"Chief Freeborn, bridge. Ship secured, over."

A loud collective sigh of relief erupted across the bridge. The Skipper blinked and smiled, raising the handset to his mouth. "Copy that Chief. Commence search of the vessel, we are sending a helo to collect casualties. Over"

"Aye aye, sir."

There was a ten minute space before the first of the reports came in of what was found. The Skipper had an inkling that nothing good would have been found, but he was still in utter shock of the list of material that was being found on the ship.

"Sir, a lot of military grade hardware, possibly Russian. Armored vehicles, missiles, small arms, even a Hind!"

At this point, fuck-it, why not! The collective thought ran through the heads of everyone.

"Sir…" There was what appeared to be a strangled pause in the Chief's report. "This is bad over here. I think… my god."

The Skipper picked up the handset. "Chief Freeborn what is it? Answer!"

* * *

Chief Freeborn had completely spaced out in shock of the container before him. Surrounding him were the rest of his team, each one wearing an equal visage of shock and fear.

At first the shipping container didn't appear any different from the rest of the crates surrounding it - except for the profuse amount of blood that had pooled around the doors on the deck; mostly blackened from coagulation.

"Schulz," Chief weakly called. "Open it up."

Schulz set his rifle down on the deck next to him, before hesitantly stepping up to the container's doors. There was no padlock to keep the handle from turning, although a piece of metal - a pin - had been jammed in place of where it would be. Schulz pulled the pin out, tossing it to the deck, turned the handle and pulled the door open.

In an instant the sailors were overtaken by the ungodly stench of blood and decay. Shining the flashlight beam into the dark space…

…and the sheer horror of what they could see was too much. One man doubled over, retching onto the deck, a strangled sob erupting from him.

"Oh god. Sweet mother of Jesus, oh god!"


	2. Order 1 - London Calling

Order 1

_"Time on his hands freezing in those clothes  
He won't go for the carrot  
__They beat him by the pole  
Some sunny day confronted by his soul  
He's out at sea, too far off, he can't go home"_

The Clash, This is England

* * *

"_Good God, they didn't have to…"_

_The voices seemed to fade in and out of clarity, sometimes bordering on the white noise that echoed in the back of his near catatonic mind._

"_Fuck shit…Chief we have a breather!"_

_He suddenly felt the sensation of hands grasping onto him, lifting him from off his back into a sitting position. Unfortunately, his apparent rescuers did not account for his now being able to see his surroundings. _

_Blood._

_He screamed._

Lieutenant Matthew Burke jolted in his seat, taking in a subtly quiet gasp of air as his eyes darted around in their sockets, trying to take in and process as much of the surrounding scenery as quickly as he could. It took few brief moments longer than usual, given his tired but panic stricken mind, to realize that he was in his coach seat onboard a British Airways flight miles above the Atlantic.

Calming down, Burke craned his head to look around the compartment. Lights were dimmed, still, and very little noise other than the hum of the four massive engines outside; just about everyone appeared to be asleep.

Seated in the rows directly behind him were his new 'teammates'. During the time between their first encounter and now, almost two months he would remember, he had come to know almost nothing of them – names excluded. Two rows behind him were Seaman Walker and GM2 Johnson. Walker, he understood, had joined into the 'prestigious' and un-envious world of undesignated bitch-work – chipping paint off the side of the ship and scraping barnacles off the anchors (all while underway). Johnson, he had come to note, fit into the typical mold for many Gunner's mates he had seen: whatever common sense there had been in the man's head had been retarded by years hanging around many of his peers in foreign bars and Bangkok cathouses.

In the row behind him, a light snore barely audible above the background hum, was the sleeping form of STG2 Shulze. The guy apparently had what appeared to be some sort of hatred of Johnson – and vice versa – although he had yet to know if the Sonar Technician's strained civility was from a past slight, or for the more archaic (and more likely) feud that existed between the GMs and other rates. Next to Shulze slept BMC Freeborn. Although a Boatswain's mate – a rate that received more than its share of shit from others – the chief maintained a fearsome air of superiority that apparently extracted great respect from the others, and Burke for that matter.

Burke could remember back a few weeks ago in a bar in Norfolk when he was approached by the Chief. He had offered him a drink and partner to converse with; Burke turned him down, citing fraternization between an enlisted and an officer, but had politely thanked him for the notion. Given his and everyone else's current situation, he had come to slightly regret the decision. Burke sighed, looking over to his neighboring seat.

The seat next to him was vacant; he was all by himself for this trip.

* * *

**Recipient: Sir Integra Windgates Hellsing (Hellsing Organization)**

**From: US Department of the Navy, Office of Personnel**

**Subject:RE Assistance**

**Sir Hellsing,**

**We have spared some resources to provide you with the assistance you have requested from the United States Government. I apologize that this does not meet the requirement of your request of twenty five men with "special forces qualifications" as well as a Protestant background. We do not normally respond to requests from paramilitary organizations.**

**However due to recent events we were able to provide you with five sailors from the USN with prior combat experience. Since they do not live up to our standards, we believe they will be better off in your hands. Attached to this document are the records of the five sailors.**

**They will be departing the United States within the week and will be on their way to the United Kingdom.**

**– Mr. Gregory Wake**

**Office of Personnel**

Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing read down the letter – no, more of a memo really – again. She was a vampire hunter, expert in swordsmanship, and a week ago when she had first received the letter, she even held the title for 'Most Pissed-Off Woman'. She had even initially thrown a crystal glass in frustration upon news of her future soldiers.

Granted, had made requests some time before recipient of the letter, and at that time she had made the mistake of telling herself she'd accept whatever help she could receive.

She cursed herself at her rare slip of naivety.

Given the recent spikes in vampire activity – nothing outright new, every once in a while the frequency of vampire attacks would increase before dropping down again – and the reduction of her forces, she had been forced to play her hand with something she wished she didn't need to do: request help from outside of Great Britain.

Over the past few months, the Hellsing soldiers' numbers had decreased, from varying reasons ranging from the typical high mortality rate – which was expected – to medical and retirement discharges.

Usually twice a year, the Hellsing Organization, under the direction of Commander Peter Fergusson would go on a recruitment drive of sorts through their contacts within the British Army's Special Air Service and the Metropolitan Police Service's elite D11. However, manning levels had fallen rapidly and both respective services had denied Hellsing's culling of their finest for the time being.

She wasn't desperate. She just wanted to maintain preferred force size. That's the story she'd been sticking to.

It had been Walter who came up with the idea: contact various foreign governments for support. His argument had made plenty of sense. Non-Human Beings, or NHB's, were not strictly confined to plaguing the shadows of the United Kingdom. As a sort of training program, foreign governments could transfer good candidates to act as Hellsing's soldiers for a period of time, and then return to their home country as experienced hunters for their governments' counter-supernatural organizations.

As a bonus, a possible weakening of the Vatican's Section XIII, better known as the Iscariot Organization's influence across Europe and the Americas. Not for her own power gain, Integra thought, but to put a sweet cathartic boot up that prick Enrico Maxwell's –

The only reply she had received, though, came from the United States. And it angered her to no end.

Everything about it had felt like a mockery towards her. As disrespectful as it was from the other leaders she had petitioned to completely ignore her, it was at least understandable. A paramilitary organization with next to no given background or apparent purpose (or at least one that made sense to a sane person), it seemed pretty easy to just write off as an overzealous group uncomprehending of its place.

But the Americans acknowledged her presence, and instead of walking away from a perceived crazy person, decided to humor that person for their own amusement.

It boiled her blood just thinking about it.

"I do believe our newest recruits are scheduled to arrive today sir."

Integra cooled a little at the voice of her companion, Walter C. Dornez. Ex-vampire hunter turned butler, retainer, and genius gunsmith that he was; Walter had been one of Integra's longest and most trusted companions during her still short life.

"Yes, Fergusson is ready to receive them," Integra sighed. "I wonder how much of an issue he may have of them. They're neither the numbers nor of the quality we've been looking for. They're just a couple of sailors and apparently nothing more."

"I'm rather surprised you chose to accept them."

"I hope you're not questioning my leadership Walter," Integra hinted a grinned, betraying the warning in her voice. They'd have conversation before after she first read the letter. She'd accept these sailors, but she would rather decline. No, she decided. She would get the last laugh in this sham of a deal. The Department of Defense offered five foul-ups as a joke and she would in turn use them to her best advantage.

Walter gave her a reassuring smile. "Heaven's no! I was merely making reference to your surprising unpredictability."

Integra gave a full grin. "You know better than anyone how important it is to keep from being figured out. We all must keep a few tricks up our sleeves."

Integra opened one of her desk drawers, and after a few brief moments of rummaging, pulled out a cigar and an envelope. Originally, a larger document envelope had arrived containing the letter and this accompanying envelope. Inside were a series of folders that Integra surmised as the aforementioned records – she hadn't checked until now.

"Walter, how are we on armaments and ammunition?"

"We have quite the ample supply of blessed silver bullets, with a much larger supply of regular silver waiting to be processed. Additional tactical armaments such as teargas and flashbang grenades are also at a satisfactory number."

Integra nodded in approval, clipping the end of the cigar.

"We also have a number of MP5s and L96s in the armory as well as P226 pistols. Normally these would be our default weapons but we've made accommodations for other weapons before."

"We'll let them decide what to use," Integra placed the cigar in her mouth. "See if we can give them access to the old surplus warehouses. It's doubtless they could find equipment they can use."

Walter moved to light the cigar. "Possible, as I recall from the last council meeting, those warehouses were seldom opened for anything other than to store more outdated equipment." Once satisfied the cigar was properly lit, he returned to his place aside the desk. "It's old equipment, but old certainly doesn't mean it's no longer good." He gave Integra a smile. "A few repairs and some maintenance, I'm sure they'll find something useful. I remember back when the Army was still carrying around the old L1 rifles."

"Honestly I'd just hand them what we've always used and get on with things," Integra puffed on the cigar. "But with The Convention acting more like an oversight committee, they're getting increasingly tightfisted about supplying us. Apparently, they mistakenly believe less weapons equals fewer of my soldiers, and therefore quieter operations. Tsk, as though these vampires care for subtlety!"

"Sir, I believe just about everyone here has as little love for The Convention's office politics as you, even Commander Fergusson."

Integra sighed. "Especially him. He can't even supply his soldiers with appropriate equipment without one of The Twelve looking down on him and asking why."

There was a brief silence as she sat there staring off into space, eyes pointed at but not paying attention to the envelope containing her new men's records. Coming to her senses again, she took a long drag of her cigar. "Unqualified men being equipped with obsolete gear for a job that has a high mortality rate. I'm beginning to fear my human assets are slowly transitioning into little more than cannon fodder."

"More like living buffets, sir."

Integra shot a bemused look at her butler. "I'd expect that kind of talk from Alucard."

Walter didn't reply, bowing his head slightly as though feigning shame.

Pulling out the records, Integra couldn't help but wonder about her newest recruits. Her thoughts seldom wandered about any new soldier that came to join the ranks – these men had a pedigree and were chosen entirely by Fergusson and Walter, with the occasional feedback from her, and she could trust their judgment – but this was a seriously different case. These were foreign nationals – not just any foreigners but bloody _Americans_! She didn't want any cowboys mucking about like liabilities. And her confidence was not secured by the fact that they were coming here under apparently suspect reasons. They didn't appear to meet one of the criteria she asked for!

_No_, she thought. _Best not be hasty with conclusions, I haven't even seen their personnel records._

She understood the old phrases 'diamond in the rough' and 'one man's trash is another man's treasure.'

_Please, lord almighty, let this be such a case,_ she pleaded with herself.

"Sonar Technician Second Class Andrew Shulze," she read aloud from the first file. "Jewish; has weapons qualifications but appears…huh, a rather light service record."

She picks the next one up.

"Seaman Allen Walker, no given religious preference, and has only been in the navy for a year…excellent, a _rooky_."

"Gunner's Mate Second Class Michael Johnson, no religious preference, apparently an expert with small arms…_another short record_?"

"Chief Boatswain's Mate Don Freeborn - if that's not the most _American_ sounding name I've heard – 18 years navy service, seems to be the most qualified of the bunch."

Eyeing the record once more, she closed it with a huff and turned to the butler. "Walter, these service records are rather short. No achievements, no discernible service timeline and no evaluations…at the very least this chief ought to have a decent length record. But like the others, it's only two pages."

She reaches for the last of the service records and looks at the name and rank on the folder's tab. "Lieutenant Matthew Burke; at least they have a commissioned leader."

She opens the folder, scanning the suspiciously light record. "Lieutenant Matthew Burke, Catholic…"

* * *

In stereotypical fashion, London was enshrouded in a post-rain mist.

Amidst the bustle of Heathrow Airport's civilian foot traffic nobody noticed the group of Americans making their way from baggage claim and outside, searching for their ride. While the temperature outside was not cold – back home he would still be wearing tee shirts and maybe shorts – the mist alone made Burke nonetheless grateful to himself to prescribe amongst the group to wear their respective over-attire for their uniforms: Burke and Chief Freeborn in their bridge coats while the remaining wore their pea coats. Setting their bags down beside some benches, they began their scan of the area. Burke spotted a pair of olive drab, otherwise featureless, land rovers nearby. He nodded to Chief Freeborn, signaling to him that he was off to check the vehicles, and walked off.

"The fuck is this?"

Chief looked over at the men, zeroing in on Gunner's Mate 2nd Class Michael Johnson. "Care to clarify that?"

"What the fuck are we doing here?" Johnson growled. "As nice as an assignment to Europe would be, I think it's pretty fuckin' obvious this ain't some reward billet."

"Fuckin' brains on ya!" Chief replied. "Ya must've had a whole five points higher on your ASVAB than the rest of your department."

Johnson gaped at the seemingly uncalled for insult.

"What I mean is," Chief continued. "It's pretty damn obvious we're here to be kept outta sight and outta mind. They can't kick us out, cause that'll give us grounds to take legal action, then the whole shebang goes public. No, I reckon the idea was slap us with a Page-Thirteen telling us to keep our mouths shut and send us on some wacky billet in a foreign country where we can't cause any trouble other than to ourselves."

"But why us? And him while we're at it!" Johnson gestured towards the distant form of Lieutenant Burke.

"Really?" a new voice chimed; Sonar Technician 2nd Class Andrew Schulze. "We saw all that shit! Just us and nobody else!"

"Chief," Seaman Allen Walker chimed. "Do you know exactly what we are _doing_ here?"

"Shit," Chief grumbled. "I don't know. I know we weren't sent to the Royal Navy, our orders don't say anything about a naval base…DAMMIT I DON'T KNOW! I know jack shit about the British military and how they operate, and I sure as fuck don't know who we will be suckin' up to! Hell, I doubt the Lieutenant knows either."

"Where is he by the way?"

"Checkin' on our rides. Shouldn't take this damn long! What's holdin' him up?"

* * *

'_God forbid I have a decent day!_' Officer Seras Victoria thought.

Sprawled on the ground, luggage strewn by the side, the off-duty police officer was beginning to question her choice of friends.

She had come to the airport with her friend and teammate Jack to pick up Eddie, another of her fellow D11 teammates, whom had returned from his vacation. Since Eddie was, as Jack boldly put it, two balls short of a useful sack, it was Seras who had to track him down and direct him to the car.

As soon as she had told him where the car was, Eddie was bounding through the crowd to the car – while leaving his luggage for Seras to haul. '_Jerk._'

Squeezing pass throngs of bystanders, however, is not an easy task when the bag is heavy and you're not particularly known for grace…a civilian bumped the bag, throwing the mass behind her and swiveling her on her feet. She dropped the bag, only to trip and fall backwards, landing unceremoniously on her back.

"Hey! Are you okay ma'am?" a voice called.

Lifting herself on her elbow and nervously rubbing the back of her head, she replied. "Y-Yes. I'll be alright."

A hand was offered to her. "I have to admit, I've seen figure skaters take less graceful falls."

Seras nervously chuckled at the…compliment?...before taking the stranger's hand, who then lifted her back to her feet, giving her a chance to look at him.

He was almost a head taller than her, wrapped in a large wool coat with gold buttons and shoulder boards; underneath it she could see he was wearing a tie. Atop his head was a black and white peaked cap with gold decoration, with a pair of gold crossed anchors behind a silver shield emblazoned in the center. He was smiling warmly at her.

"Ah…thank you," Seras mumbled, '_I should work on my people skills more_.'

"My pleasure ma'am," the man said. Seras scrunched her nose at the use of the word 'ma'am', but said nothing.

A car honked, causing the both of them to look in the direction of the noise. Seras could see Jack and Eddie in the car, waving at her to hurry up.

"I'm guessing that's your ride?"

"Huh?" Seras looked back at the stranger. "Oh…yeah…hey wait!"

The stranger grabbed the bag, hauling it towards the car. "Your friends are getting a little impatient it seems."

It was then that Seras picked up on his foreign accent, coupled with his uniform she didn't recognize. "You're not from _here_ are you?"

"Lieutenant Matt Burke," he replied. "United States Navy, at your service."

"Oh, American," she watched as he placed the bag in the boot of the car. "Well, welcome to England!"

Burke smiled at her again, tipping his cover in thanks before walking off. "Have a good day ma'am."

Seras smiled back at his retreating form before catching herself for her rudeness, "Oh… and thank you!"

He glanced back towards her, seeing her wave before nodding his head and continuing on his way. She squeezed into the cramped backseat of the car with a huff, going from happy to annoyed at having Eddie take her place in the front seat.

"So Kitten met someone?"

"Oh, be quiet Jack!"

* * *

"Shit, ten minutes in a new country!" Chief snickered as Burke walked up to the group. "The Lieutenant works fast!"

"Alright Chief, just helping a lady out…"

"I don't blame him," Johnson said, turning to the other guys. "I mean, did you see the tits on her? Sweet Jesus! Those were…" he turned to see Burke glaring at him "…ahem…she looked like a very nice lady sir."

"Grab your stuff and get in the jeeps," Burke growled.

Hiking his seabag onto his shoulders, Chief called out "Let's roll!"

* * *

Burke stood before whom he could only describe as 'the scariest woman on earth'.

Admittedly, Sir Hellsing wasn't close to what he'd expected – though he was sure that same line of thought ran through everyone's mind at some point. First off, the title 'Sir' should have meant that his new boss was a man. Second, he'd think his new boss was also older, with possibly greying hair, maybe a mustache or a beard…

No, instead he was facing off with a rather annoyed – see: glaring death beams – young woman who appeared to be in his age bracket.

'_God please_,' Burke thought. '_Don't make eye contact_.'

Sir Integra stood up, clasping her hands behind her back, and looked right into his eyes. '_Dammit_!'

"My organization is not some dumping ground," Sir Integra growled. "We are not some trash basket that accepts the dregs of other militaries. Unlike the rest of my soldiers, who've proven themselves during their time in D11 and the Special Air Service, I have a group of foreigners with no proof of worth beyond an unflattering memo and very sparse records."

Her expression appeared to have softened, her voice now holding less steel to it. "That doesn't mean I won't keep you around long enough to know precisely what value you and your men are to me."

Burke wasn't quite sure what to say, but he knew he had to say something. "I hope the number is a high one…sir."

"It better be," Integra replied, reaching into her drawer to pull out a cigar and a lighter. "Lives will be at stake in this."

She lit the cigar, taking a puff of it before exhaling. She shot Burke what appeared to be a knowing smirk; "Tell me yank, has Commander Fergusson, or the other soldiers explained what the Hellsing Organization does?"

"Not exactly," Burke said. "But I have an idea…"

"Let's say you don't have an idea," a deep voice growled.

'_Jesus-Tittyfucking-Christ!_' Burke thought practically jumping from the voice. He turned to look at the source of the voice, finding himself staring straight into the face of a nearly seven-foot tall, crimson clad dandy with sunglasses – shooting him what had to be the most evil smile he'd ever seen on a person.

"If you had an idea, then we wouldn't be good at our jobs now, would we? I hope you're not calling us incompetent."

"At the very least then, may I assume…that red is your favorite color?"

The man – if you could call him that – widened his smile, baring his teeth. "What gave it away?"

"Alucard," Integra growled.

"Alucard?" Burke parroted.

Alucard looked down on Burke, evidently sizing him up. "I apologize master…"

'_Master?'_

"…but I do believe it would be easier for the new blood to see in the flesh precisely what his new enemy will be."

Integra exhaled another cloud of smoke. "Captain Burke, we are the Royal Order of Protestant Knights, better informally known as the Hellsing Organization. From the ranking, order and hardware you have seen, I'd gander you think we are a counter-terrorist paramilitary group; I suppose that is not a _wrong_ assumption, but our foe is far more…disturbing, than an IRA bomber or an Islamic extremist. We hunt monsters."

Burke was quiet for a moment – '_what?'_

* * *

It wasn't even seconds after she had watched Burke pass through the door that she lit another cigar. The briefing had not left a particularly assuring sensation – or maybe that was because of the seven foot tall psychopathic bloodsucker standing next to her.

"I should lock you up for a few weeks," Integra growled. "Deprive you of the pleasure of killing more vermin."

"He would have to become aware of my presence eventually," Alucard was unfazed by the threat. "Better to get it over with. At least I might avoid such a nuisance as his men shooting at me."

"I thought playing dead was a favored past time of yours?"

"It loses a bit of its fun when the victims are from the same team. Friendly-fire has its excitement, but when you can't kill them, it can get a bit tiresome. Besides, how else could I size up the newest addition to the great Hellsing Organization?"

Integra raised an eyebrow. "Well vampire, you seem so eager to inform me, what do you make of him?"

Alucard smiled, bearing his quite fearsome fangs, eyes wide behind the tinted glasses. Had Integra not have the experience she obtained during her still short life, she might have melted into a blubbering mess from the sadistically gleeful look.

"Not quite impressive."

Integra arched an eyebrow again. She felt a 'but' coming…

"But promising. So very, very promising. I think he may become a formidable asset in our ranks."

Integra's eyes widen slightly. "How did you reach that conclusion Alucard?"

"He has eyes that have glimpsed Hell." With what seemed like the blink of an eye, he had disappeared.

Integra intertwined her fingers and puffed away at her cigar in contemplation, making a mental note to look into whatever more information she could pry from the American government about her newest additions.

* * *

The door to the workspace flung open.

"C'mon guys! Stop it!" The high pitched whining of Seras Victoria filled the air.

Simon chuckled to himself. Sometimes he wondered, with all her naivety and childlike behavior, how 'Kitten' even ended up in D11. "What's buggering Kitten now?"

Jack and Eddie entered, Seras right behind them. "Looks like Kitten's finally showin' some interest in the opposite sex!"

"Really?" Simon scratched his head. "Porter was certain she was playin' on the other team."

Seras paused, wondering with panic if she had just heard that right. "_W-what?!"_

"Nope, she's just a late bloomer! Starts talkin' with some bloke right off the damn plane!"

"C'mon, guys!" Seras pleaded again. "He was just some guy from the U.S. and…"

"Oh, so she likes 'em foreign, eh?"

"I guess that makes her a-a what? Oh! A _XENOPHILE_!"

Seras looked at her friends' teasing with horror, slowly letting the implications of their childish cruelty sink in. And within a moment she was out the door, her loud, anguished cry filling the air in the corridors behind her.


End file.
